


Took to Me So Well

by LearnedFoot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aliens Made Them Do It, Anal Fingering, Autofellatio, Consensual Non-Consent, Consent Issues, Dubious Consent, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Embarrassment, Finger Sucking, Handcuffs, Hurt Peter Parker, M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Nonnies Made Me Do It, Painful Sex, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Praise Kink, Protective Tony Stark, Sakaar (Marvel), Specifically Grandmaster made them do it, Tony Angst, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-06-09 20:09:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15275247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: “Oh, I think you know exactly what I have planned.” A pause. The Grandmaster claps his hands together, like a child who can’t contain himself. “Sex. It’s sex.”(AKA: The Grandmaster made them do it.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really, really wanted to see a "the Grandmaster makes Tony and Peter sex slaves on Sakaar" fic, so I wrote one. 
> 
> As the tags indicate, they may not have chosen the situation, but that doesn't mean they don't want each other...
> 
> Title from Zella Day's "Hypnotic": "You took to me so well / Hypnotic taking over me." It's not the most super relevant song, but I think it's very sexy.

Tony wakes with a disoriented groan. Where is he? His head throbs, blaring pain making it hard to see straight. That last thing he remembers is the screech of a siren, a terrifying jolt, a blast of cold air sucking him away, Peter’s scream—

 _Peter_.

He whips his head around, fear gripping his heart. Not after he _just_ rescued—

“Mr. Stark!”

His focus sharpens on the bright face. Peter is sitting in a large chair a few feet away, eyes sparkling with excitement. For a moment Tony is on a cloud of relief. Peter is here, smile tugging at the corner of his lips in a way that makes his heart flutter. Everything is okay.

Then the rest of the scene finally swims into focus and the moment is gone. Everything is decidedly not okay.

The first thing he notices is that Peter is held to his chair by thick cuffs made of an unknown material that looks alien. Then he feels the pressure around his own wrists and—yep, he’s bound too. Finally, his mind manages to overcome the pain and adrenaline long enough to take in the rest of their surroundings. Alien guards stand at attention in a large room. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook an unfamiliar and uninviting cityscape. Directly in front of them looms a man with a shock of blue down his lip and an expression Tony does not like at all. Instinctively, he looks down. His chestplate is missing. Fuck.

His eyes flick back up to meet those of his captor, who smirks.

“Welcome to Sakaar. I am the Grandmaster.” He opens his hands in wide arc, encompassing the room. “This is my home. My castle, if you will. My château de me. Welcome. Wait, I already said that. Well, welcome again. I am going to enjoy having you here.”

The words come out in a stuttering ramble, but underneath the easy affect lingers clear threat. Tony shudders and glances back towards Peter, who is still staring at him expectantly, as if he will have all the answers. Well, why wouldn’t the kid think that? Tony _did_ help defeat Thanos, unwind the slaughter of billions, and trek back to Titan with the universe’s most annoying raccoon all to save him. (And everyone else, he chides himself. It wasn’t _just_ to save Peter.) He isn’t about to let some fool in clown makeup derail his rescue party for long. 

He turns back to the Grandmaster, who watches him wolfishly. Grandmaster—he knows that name.

“You’re that egomaniac who kept Bruce as a slave for two years.”

The Grandmaster winces. “I don’t like that word. And I don’t know a Bruce. Well, I do. Actually, that’s a Bruce,” he adds, pointing at one of the guards. “Or is it Bruno? Oh, it’s Bruno. Whoops. Ask Topaz for an apology bonus. Anyway, I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“The Hulk?” Peter offers, drawing Tony’s attention back to him. He looks confused. Of course he does: he hasn’t even had a chance to meet Bruce yet, let alone hear his fragmented memories of the trash planet where he was kept as a fighting monkey. The trash planet where they’ve landed, somehow.

“Yeah, kid,” Tony offers, trying to sound confident and in control. “And Thor. They were here. Whumped this joker’s ass.”

“Hey, hey, hey, no talking to each other until I say so!” The Grandmaster claps his hands to bring their attention back to him. His eyes flash darkly. “And don’t you _dare_ mention that name again!”

“Which one?” Tony pushes. “Bruce? Hulk? Thor?”

Suddenly, his entire body is on fire. Pain radiates from his neck through his limbs, his jaw clenches so tightly his teeth screech, someone is screaming his name but he can’t focus—

Just as suddenly, it’s over. It couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, but he’s left drenched in sweat and gasping for breath. Something still burns hot on his neck.

“Mr. Stark! Mr. Stark!” Peter is struggling against his restraints, wide-eyed and panicky. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, kid.” His raspy voice betrays the lie, but he forces what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Just a flesh wound.”

“What did I _just_ say about talking to each other?” the Grandmaster chides, pulling Tony’s attention back to him. “Are we clear on the ground rules?”

“Yeah,” Tony shoots back. “No talking to each to each other. No saying—Thor? It’s Thor that bugs you, right? I get it. It’s his muscles. Frankly, I get jealous too.”

Expression unchanging, the Grandmaster flicks his wrist.

Now it’s Peter that’s screaming, blue flashes of electricity spinning out from a bolt on his neck. Tony had thought experiencing it was bad, but watching it—watching it happen to _Peter_ —

“Stop it!” he shouts, choking back panic. “You’ve made your point!”

The Grandmaster flicks his wrist again, triumphant, and the screams stop. Tony risks a glance over; Peter is clearly trying to hold back a pained grimace, tears sparkling in his eyes. Tony has an overwhelming urge to reach out and stroke the hair now matted to his head. 

“Look, you’ve got me all discombobulated,” the Grandmaster whines, interrupting the momentary pleasure of the vision. “I’ve lost my train of thought.”

“I’m pretty sure you were about to tell us we’re the next victims in your little alien deathmatch,” Tony offers.

“What?” The Grandmaster looks genuinely startled. “You? You’d be—you’d be crushed!”

“Not if you gave me my suit back,” Tony suggests, beginnings of an escape plan swirling into place. What had Bruce told him about a collapsing neutron star?

“Suit? What suit? Oh, those little nanobots? Cute. But no. That would be cheating. No, no, you’re not a contender.”

“I could be,” Peter offers, hesitant. “I don’t need a suit.” It is only then that Tony registers that Peter is in his old blue-and-red Spider-Man getup, the Iron Spider apparently gone the way of his nanobots. Damn. “I can fight. I’m strong.”

“Oh, I’m sure you are.” The Grandmaster’s voice is suddenly lecherous; his eyes trail across Peter’s body in a way that makes Tony want to rip them out of his head. “But I have other plans for the two of you.”

“Plans?” Peter glances over, nervous. Clearly, he didn’t like the way their captor said that word. Tony agrees.

“What kind of plans, Caligula?”

“The kind I think you’ll like very much, if you keep an open mind.” Their captor ends the thought with an exaggerated wink and another flick of his hand.

Tony goes black.

***

When he comes to he’s still restrained to a chair, but the room is different. Small, intimate. Low lighting. An unfamiliar floral smell lingers in the air. He feels clean, he realizes with a jolt. As if someone has run him through a shower. His clothes are different, too. In fact, he’s wearing nothing but a fluffy white robe. _Nothing_ but the robe.

What. The. Fuck.

He instantly turns to his left and sees Peter is there, slumped in his own chair. He’s also wearing a robe; freshly cleaned curls frame a face still relaxed in sleep. He looks peaceful. ( _Beautiful_ , a part of his mind he’s trying to ignore offers.) He would give anything to ensure his protégé could stay like that, relaxed and comfortable.

“Ah, I see you’re awake.”

The chair rotates beneath him, swiveling away from Peter and towards the Grandmaster, who is lounging on a couch, adorned in his own robe, this one deep silver worked through with complex golden needlework. Tony’s stomach drops at the sight.

“Whatever it is you have planned, leave the kid out of it.” He makes his glare as fierce as possible. He must look ridiculous, trying to be threatening while chained to a chair wearing nothing but a robe, but he has to try.

“Oh, I think you know exactly what I have planned.” A pause. The Grandmaster claps his hands together, like a child who can’t contain himself. “Sex. It’s sex.”

“Yeah, I got that from the context clues, Watson.” He tries not to sound like he’s about to vomit at the thought. “Like I said, I’m all yours. Whatever you want. I’m very forward thinking, you’ll have a great time. But don’t touch the kid.”

The Grandmaster smirks, an expression Tony is already learning to loathe. “You’ve misunderstood. I’m not really the hands-on type. More of an—ah, appreciative audience member. I just want to watch you and your lover do your thing. Good for everyone, you see?”

“My—no. _No._ He is _not_ my lover.” 

“Huh. You could have fooled me with the way you two looked at each other.”

You _two_? How, exactly, had Peter looked at him to prompt that comment? He pushes the thought to the side. This man is a maniac. And besides, it doesn’t matter. He’s a teenager. A teenager he promised to protect.  

“I’m so sorry for the confusion,” the Grandmaster continues. “I’m happy to find you a different partner if you prefer. A Krylorian, maybe? Or—Oh! I’ve got a sexy A'askavarian. I mean, the tentacles take a little getting used to, but once you do…” He waggles his eyebrows.

The knot of anxiety that has been building in Tony’s chest loosens just a little. “Whatever. I don’t care. Like I said, open mind. Just leave Peter alone.”

The Grandmaster furrows his brow. “Well, no. I paid for both of you.” His eyes shift beyond Tony, to where Peter is still bound to his chair. “Besides, he’s too pretty to pass up. Absolutely scrumptious. I honestly can’t imagine why you’re _not_ fucking him.”

Tony tries to turn to look at Peter, too, but his chair has been rotated too far, and the restraints keep him in place. He prays he’s still passed out. “He’s a kid.”

“Doesn’t look like a kid to me.” The Grandmaster shrugs. “No accounting for taste. But if you want someone else, I know plenty of people who would be happy to take that one for a ride. Actually, now that you mention it, some might pay extra…”

Tony flashes back to Titan, Peter yelling about Mantis laying eggs in him, and his heart breaks a little. “No. No way.”

“Well, you’ve got me into a bit of a bind here. _Someone’s_ going to fuck him. So if you’re not willing—”

“I—” Tony grits his teeth. He already hates himself for what he’s about to say, but what other option is there? “I didn’t say I’m not willing.”

He feels sick. The idea of forcing himself on the person he spent the last year trying to _save_ —

“Thanks, Mr. Stark.” Peter’s voice cuts through the conversation, quiet and a little sad. _Shit_. Tony struggles again to see him, but physics haven’t suddenly changed. How long has he been awake? “I would prefer that, please.”

Long enough to hear at least some of this negotiation, apparently. “Kid…” But Tony doesn’t have anything to add.

A smile breaks out across the Grandmaster’s face. “See? Problem solved! Well, let’s get this party started, shall we?”

Tony’s chair swivels again; the Grandmaster drops out of sight behind him and Peter comes back into view, huddled in his chair a few feet away. He looks embarrassed. No—mortified. A blush spreads from high on his cheeks down his neck and onto the patch of chest exposed by the loosely tied robe, open just enough to show the scoop of his collarbone and a hint of muscle. Tony forces his eyes back to Peter’s face, ignoring the twitch of arousal the sight evokes.

Suddenly, his chair lurches forward, smoothly collapsing the distance between them until their knees are almost touching.

“Hey,” he says as the involuntary ride jerks to a stop. He winces, remembering the rule about not talking to each other. Peter, apparently having the same thought, casts a worried glance over Tony’s head, up to where the Grandmaster must be watching them. But nothing happens. Maybe the rules are different now. That’s not much reassurance. “Hey, Pete. Focus up. Look at me.”

When Peter’s eyes meet his they’re bright with tears, and he hates himself just a little more for even thinking about the body underneath that robe.

“Hey,” he says again, pushing down the guilt. He needs to focus on making this okay, somehow. As okay as possible, anyway. There will be plenty of time for self-loathing later. “It’s just you and me, got it?”

Peter nods, flashing a small smile. “Okay, Mr. Stark. Just you and me.”

“Aw, that’s sweet,” the Grandmaster cuts in, a hammer through the moment. “I like that.” There’s a loud click, and Tony’s handcuffs break apart. “Now get on with it.”

Tony lifts his arms, rotating his sore wrists, so caught up in the relief of being free that for a moment he doesn’t notice that Peter isn’t doing the same. When he catches on, he furrows his brow in a question. Peter shakes his head, wriggling his wrists a little to show they’re still bound.

Motherfucker.

He twists around, once again able to look his captor in the eyes. The Grandmaster has propped himself sidewise on the couch, luxuriating ostentatiously; a plate of cheese has appeared on a side table next to him. He quirks an expectant eyebrow.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Tony asks.

“The boy will go free when I want him to. _If_ I want him to,” the Grandmaster replies, amusement playing across his features. He’s toying with them.

“I’m not going to—I’m not going to fucking _molest_ him while he’s tied up!”

“You keep using these unpleasant words. You should really work on shifting your perspective. Or I can shift it for you." The Grandmaster raises a threatening hand. Whatever it is he’s been using to control their chairs and the bolts of electricity flashes between his fingers. Tony is about to tell him to light him up, he doesn’t care, he will _not_ do this, not like this, when—

“Please, Mr. Stark. It’s really alright.”

Tony turns back. Peter is still flushed, but his face is set with a familiar determined look; back straight, jaw jutting.

“I—I think you should kiss me now.” He punctuates the thought with a small nod.

Tony wants to protest, wants to say this isn’t how this is supposed to go. They should be in Paris, or Hong Kong, or maybe just at the compound, sitting inside on a rainy day. Peter should be older, eager—he should actually want this, not be forced into it by a megalomaniac. That’s the fantasy, anyway. But it’s _only_ fantasy. It will only be an imaginary future he ruins when he touches the lips he hasn’t been able to get out of his mind since Titan. That, and the best relationship left in his life after he pushed everyone else away in his obsession to undo the nightmare Thanos created. But at least he’ll get them out of this thing alive, even if Peter never looks at him the same way again.

He sighs and places a hand on Peter’s forearm, just above the handcuffs, below the edge of the robe’s sleeve. His skin is warm, soft, as if he’s been bathed in lotion. He rubs his thumb in what he hopes is a soothing circle, suddenly aware of how calloused his hands are. Somehow, Peter gets redder, but he also looks him in the eye and nods again, encouraging.

Without breaking the gaze, Tony lifts his hand to Peter’s cheek, and is surprised when he closes his eyes and leans into it. The innocence of the gesture leaves him breathless with affection. For a few beats he remains utterly still, treasuring the moment, and then he slips his hand around to cradle the back of Peter’s head. Peter opens his eyes, expectant.

Tentatively, Tony leans forward. It’s an awkward position; if it were up to him he’d pull Peter into his lap, but—well, if it were up to him a lot of things would be different. He braces his free hand against Peter’s chest, appreciating the strength of the muscles rippling below the feather-soft robe. He resists the urge to fist the fabric; that would be too close to an admission of how those muscles make him feel.

Their lips meet.

(And _god_ , he smells so good. Fresh and slightly sweet.)

It’s supposed to be a chaste peck, but Peter presses in, parting his lips with a soft gasp that goes straight to Tony’s cock. With a surge of lust he responds in kind, just barely holding back a groan as Peter melts into him.

The kiss is awkward. Their teeth clash, their rhythm doesn’t quite match. But the warmth of it sends a bolt of hot desire through Tony’s core, settling tight in his abdomen. He can feel Peter’s heart pattering beneath his hand and fists the robe after all, pulling him closer. He’s rewarded with a whining moan that might be the best sound he’s ever heard. Peter wriggles forcefully beneath him, as if trying to break out of his restraints.

The sudden movement brings Tony back to his senses. He breaks the kiss, panting heavily, and pulls back far enough to allow them to look at each other. Peter avoids his gaze. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark.” His voice is soft and plaintive.

“You—what?” What did _Peter_ have to be sorry for?

“I don’t—I haven’t really—I mean not _never_ , but—I know I’m not very—” He cuts himself off with a shrug.

The absurdity of it is like a bucket of cold water. Suddenly Tony’s arousal is gone, replaced with an overwhelming sense of protective tenderness for the young man who is somehow, ridiculously, worried that he’s letting him down, even now. He drags his hand around to Peter’s jaw and forces his chin up until their eyes meet.

“Kid, there is such a thing as being too selfless. Do _not_ worry about me.” Peter looks crestfallen at that, so he adds, “Besides, I have no complaints. You’re doing great.”

Peter scrunches his face, skeptical. “Don’t lie to me. This is embarrassing enough as it is.”

“I’m not lying, Pete.” That doesn’t seem to do the trick, so he takes a deep breath. “Honestly,” he whispers, like the confession it is. “You’re perfect.”

The bright-eyed look of wonder he gets in response is the best thing he’s ever seen.     

“Oh my god, _enough_. No more talking. At first this was cute, but now I’m just bored.”

Suddenly, the floor is rotating below them; apparently the entire set-up is on a moveable platform. It shifts just enough to put their chairs parallel to the Grandmaster, so that he can see them both clearly. Then Tony’s chair tilts out from under him, dumping him onto his knees as it zooms back and away.

He steadies himself on the edge of Peter’s seat, disoriented and shaken by the emotional whiplash of the last few minutes. He looks over to his captor, mostly to avoid gazing at the body that is unexpectedly eye-level, tantalizingly close. This is not a soft and romantic moment, he reminds himself. It doesn’t matter how happy the kid had seemed at his praise, he can’t indulge the delusion that he wants any of this.

The Grandmaster waves his hand languidly in Tony’s direction. “Since you apparently need some direction here, untie his robe.” Tony finds the knotted belt keeping Peter’s robe together and swiftly undoes it without removing his glare from their captor. “Well at least _he’s_ clearly enjoying himself.”

The dirty hint in those words is enough to destroy his resolve. He turns back to the temptation in front of him. The robe has fallen open, leaving Peter completely exposed, and Tony has to hold in a gasp. He looks better than anything his imagination had ever conjured up: firm chest, tight abs, light trail of hair leading downwards to a slender, perfect cock, already half hard.

His brain short-circuits. His mouth goes dry.

“Jesus, kid,” he whispers. He glances up, but his protégé won’t meet his eye. “Peter—”

“ _No. Talking._ Or he gets zapped.”

The memory of Peter screaming in pain snaps Tony’s mouth shut; the threat reminds him that he’s supposed to be putting on a show. Slowly, almost reverently, he brings a hand to Peter’s chest, placing it over his heart, which beats rapidly. Peter hardens at the touch, and Tony feels his own cock twitch in response.

He runs his hand down to Peter’s abs, marveling at how every small movement of his fingers elicits a new jerk from the dick he can’t keep his eyes away from. He pauses and spreads his palm across Peter’s tight, flat stomach. The skin beneath it is fever-hot. Those heightened senses, he realizes. He’s dealing with a teenager whose everything is dialed to eleven. No wonder.

He reaches up to Peter’s chin, once again turning his head until their eyes meet. He’s even more flushed than before. Sweat beads at his hairline. He pants heavily, pupils blown so wide it’s hard to believe he can focus. His shoulders are tense, expression miserable, like he’s been caught in a compromised position.

 _No, kid, you’re amazing_ , Tony wants to say. Wants to make sure that he knows he shouldn’t be ashamed. This may not be fair, or right, but he’s nothing short of astonishing. He settles for stroking his hair. Peter whines at the touch, eyes fluttering closed. After a few seconds of Tony’s steady petting, his shoulders loosen, his frown relaxes. Tony rises further on his knees to plant a kiss on his forehead. The whine turns into a hum of contentment.

“Thanks, Mr. Stark,” Peter mutters, so quietly he can barely hear it. 

Feeling like he’s gotten his message across, Tony leans back, allowing himself to admire the sight of the younger man fully erect, cock just hitting his belly button, precum streaking his stomach. But he doesn’t linger long. One look at the Grandmaster makes it clear that even if their tormenter didn’t hear Peter’s whispered thanks, he is getting dangerously bored again. Okay, okay. He can’t keep delaying the inevitable.

He rolls his shoulders, taking a moment to compose himself, trying to ignore that his knees are already getting sore. If he’s going to do this, at least he can try to make it good.

He places his hands on Peter’s hips, prompting a gasp. Their eyes meet. Tony glances down at the throbbing cock in front of him and then back up, tilting his head. He hopes the question is clear. Peter’s eyes go wide. He looks over towards the Grandmaster and then returns to Tony and nods—not short and determined, but eager. (Or at least good at faking it, Tony reminds himself. The kid is just as aware of their situation as he is.)

He takes Peter’s cock in his hand and gives it an experimental stroke. Peter slams his head back with a moan that’s nothing short of pornographic. _That_ isn’t fake, Tony’s pretty sure. The kid isn’t that good an actor. He repeats the movement, earning the same sound. And again. He can feel his own dick hardening to full erection but he ignores it. This is about Peter.

He moves his hands to Peter’s thighs and lowers his head, pausing with his mouth hovering an inch away from his target, taking a moment to reckon with the line he’s about to cross. (The line he can’t wait to cross.) There’s no choice, he reminds himself. There’s no choice, but he’s going to do his damndest to make Peter forget where they are, forget what’s happening. Maybe that will be a small bit of redemption.   

He swipes his tongue around the head of Peter’s penis, appreciating the faint salt of precum. Peter lets out a squeak that is as adorable as it is hot. His hips jerk upwards. Okay, good. He’s enjoying himself. Without further hesitation, he wraps his lips around Peter’s cock and swallows it to its base.

“Oh my god,” Peter gasps, ragged voice tinged with awe.

Tony smiles around the dick in his mouth. He wonders if Peter has ever experienced this before, with anyone. Probably not, given how shy he was about kissing. He slides up and then slams back down again, smooth and fast. Peter thrusts upwards with a moan in response; Tony moves his hands back to his hips and pushes down, determined to keep control as he repeats the motion. And repeats, and repeats, Peter’s moans getting louder each time.

He pulls up and off long enough to look up at his mentee, almost laughing at the disappointed whimper that elicits. Peter’s head is thrown back; eyes squeezed shut, hair somehow gone wild. Debauched. (Stunning.) He can’t help lowering his hand to his own dick to give it a few strokes before returning to his task.

He bobs up and down in a slow, steady rhythm, luxuriating in the musk of arousal and the sounds Peter makes— _Oh my gods_ and desperate gasps. His mouth is practically watering; he begins to twist his head as he moves, swivel eased by salvia. The added variety makes Peter thrust up so hard Tony can barely hold him in place.

“Now _this_ is a show!”

Tony pauses to rub Peter’s hip bones with his thumbs; he hopes it’s a comforting gesture. He refuses to let their captor steal this moment. Then he starts moving again, picking up the pace, concentrating on swallowing Peter’s dick all the way every time. The moans get raspier, higher, almost pained; intermixed is a metallic scratching Tony can’t place and doesn’t care to be distracted by.

Peter bucks his hips again so hard he breaks from Tony’s grasp, and this time he lets him take over. He grabs the outside of Peter’s thighs for support as the thrusts get rougher, hitting the back of his throat. He swallows around a gag, feeling Peter’s cock swell and throb as his rhythm becomes erratic, shallow and fast. He gives his thigh an encouraging squeeze.

“ _Mr. Stark_ ,” Peter gasps as he comes. He slumps in his seat, spent, the last few pumps filling Tony’s mouth until he almost chokes.

He pulls off and swallows, keeping his hands firmly fixed to Peter’s legs, not wanting to lose contact. Peter looks like he’s lost all the bones in his body, melting into the chair with eyes closed, a content grin spilling across his face. Tony notices that he’s somehow managed to gouge deep marks in the chair where the cuffs still keep his hands constrained. That must have been the cause of the scratching sound. The thought is so hot it makes him dizzy.

“Kid, you are incredible,” he murmurs without thinking. Peter’s grin spreads wider.

“Yes, he is,” the Grandmaster agrees. “So don’t you think it’s time you fuck him?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! This is easily the most explicit fic I've ever written, so if you enjoyed it, feedback/encouragement would be truley appreciated. 
> 
> This exact fic has one more chapter coming. (Spoiler alert: you can kinda tell where it's going from the last line here...). If people are enjoying themselves, I might turn it into a series, though. We'll see.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't piss off the Grandmaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my patient, wonderful readers. Your feedback has just delighted me. I’m sorry it took so long to get this second part out—life went off the rails a bit in the last month. But! I am back. And you all gave me the motivation to keep at this crazy fun project even when I didn't really have time.
> 
> I know I originally said this fic was going to be two chapters, and hinted that this chapter would have fucking. But, well, I got a bit distracted by a brilliant idea from a wonderfully excellent nonny, and so there is an extra chapter, which does not yet have fucking, but does have a lot of Peter whump and praise kink. Sorry? No, not really sorry. I had a lot of fun with this, and I hope you will, too.

_Don’t you think it’s time you fuck him?_

The words ring in Tony’s ears. Peter’s muscles go tense beneath his hands, expression morphing from blissed-out contentment to wide-eyed panic.

No. There has to be a limit.

He rises to his feet, knees groaning in complaint, and pulls his robe tight as he stalks towards the Grandmaster, who has somehow sunk even deeper into his couch, a sprawled portrait of grotesque opulence.

“We’ve already given you a show,” he growls. “Enough.”

The Grandmaster’s face goes dark. “You _really_ do not understand the position you’re in.” Gone is the affected cheeriness, the exaggerated sleaziness: his tone is pure ice. Tony realizes instantly that he’s miscalculated, but it’s already too late. Peter starts to scream.

_No._

He spins, dashes back, all thought of fighting gone. All thought at all gone, except for the single driving need to stop this, to make it better—

He slams into an invisible wall and stumbles backwards.

_No._

They’re just feet apart: he can see in excruciating detail how Peter’s face contorts in pain as licks of blue travel his naked body; tears run down his cheeks, his hands grip the chair so hard it distorts in his clutch. He shrieks, chilling and broken. Tony slams himself hopelessly against the invisible barrier again—it buzzes as he’s bounced back so hard he falls, sprawling.

“Stop it,” he begs. “I get it, I get it, I’ll stop arguing.”

“That’s what you said the last time,” the Grandmaster drawls, deliberately dragging out each word. He twists his hand and Peter’s screams get louder.

“I mean it, I get it, I’m sorry.” He sounds pathetic, desperate; he doesn’t care. “Anything you want. Please, just stop—” He crawls back to the barrier and bangs his fist against it. Each slam results in another buzz as his hand is repelled, useless. “Peter!”

Their eyes meet, and the anguish he sees reflected back makes him want to vomit. No. _No._ He springs to standing and closes the distance to the couch in seconds, glaring down at their captor. For a moment he wonders if he can knock the controller away before it can be turned on him, but it’s attached to band around the Grandmaster’s wrist. Too risky, not when failing means worse pain for Peter. 

“Hey, Mad King, I mean it. Fuck me. Torture me. I don’t care, just stop.”

The Grandmaster eyes him coolly, assessing. Then, with a frightening grin, he twitches his hand.

Screams turn into gasps as Peter slumps forward, head collapsing onto his knees, arms pulled out awkwardly by the restraints that, even now, won’t let up. Tony rushes back to the barrier. It’s still there, humming when he presses against it. He claws at it helplessly, longing to throw his arms around the trembling body that’s so close, so terribly out of reach.  

“Pete, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” It comes out choked. When did he start crying?

“I’m okay, Mr. Stark.” Peter struggles back to sitting, but only makes it halfway before collapsing sideways. “I’m—I’m fine.”

It’s such an absurd lie Tony wants to laugh. Or sob. “Didn’t I already chastise you about being too selfless?”

“Sorry, sir.” Peter manages to haul himself the rest of the way up and rests his head on the back of the chair, eyes closed. A grin flits across his face. “I think I might be kind of bad at listening to you.”

Tony feels a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. The kid never fucking gives up.

“I hope you’re better at listening to me, then.” Their captor has an impeccable sense of how to ruin a moment. Tony turns to see him still wearing that terrible grin, teeth barred. “I notice you appear to be quite flexible.”

“I…yeah,” Peter agrees, slitting his eyes open skeptically. “Just a bit.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so? It’s very interesting information. It opens a whole new world of possibilities.” He cocks his head, bringing a hand to his chin like he’s considering his options. His eyes flick between his victims, sliding back and forth so many times Tony decides it absolutely has to be for show. Everything the man does is.

He bites his lip to prevent himself from making a quip. He’s actually learned that lesson, this time. (And isn’t it a problem that he can feel the fight being beaten out of him?) (But then he sees Peter still quivering in his chair, head tilted back like his neck can’t support it anymore, fingers twitching in sporadic bursts that might signal anxiety or residual pain, or both. _That’s_ the real problem. The rest can wait.)

The room feels heavy with tension as the Grandmaster drags the moment out, Peter’s labored breaths filling the air. Tony aches to rest a hand on his chest until the wheezing stops, wipe the tears off his cheeks, tell him he won’t let this happen again, that they’re going to get out of this, that he’s sorry… He presses against the invisible wall again like maybe this time something might change, but it’s as solid as ever, taunting.   

Finally, their tormentor clears his throat. “Young man, I want to see you pleasure yourself.”

Tony recoils like he’s been slapped: he needs to stop fooling himself that this situation can’t get worse. The Grandmaster catches his eye, flashing a smug smile which makes it clear the horror he’s feeling is exactly the point.

This is his fault.

This is all has fault, and if he says anything, does anything, he won’t be the one who pays the price. He hasn’t felt this helpless since Peter dissolved in his arms on Titan. (It’s always his fault.) Some rescue mission this has turned out to be.

While Tony’s mind scrolls through the list of his failures Peter remains still. Processing, probably. Finally he sighs and straightens in his chair, burning gaze locking on their enemy.

“Man, has anyone ever told you you’re into some really weird stuff?” His voice barely betrays the pain he must still be in. Tony would be proud if he weren’t so worried. When the jab doesn’t get a reply, he adds, “Well, are you going to let my hands go or what? I’m getting some pretty mixed messages here.”

The Grandmaster lets out an exaggerated sigh, rolling his eyes. “Are you Earth people all this slow? You should come with a warning label or something. I didn’t mean with your _hands_. How would that be using your flexibility?”

“What?” Peter’s eyes widen as realization hits him. “I—wow. That’s—um. Yeah. I mean. Huh.”

His mind is obviously racing, as if the thought had never occurred to him before. He might be the one teenaged boy in the entire world who could gain super flexibility and jump straight to fighting crime without ever stopping to see if he could suck himself off. The thought fills Tony with futile protective warmth. 

Peter rolls his shoulders and nods. “Yeah, I guess that would work.” He looks like he’s bracing himself for battle.

He can’t go through this alone.

“And me?” Tony asks, hoping his tone is obsequious enough to avoid setting off another tantrum. “Do I just stand here?”

“Oh, you’ll get your fun, don’t worry. But not yet. I want you to just enjoy the show. I know I will.” As if Tony could enjoy this. (Not like this.) (In another situation…) (But this is not another situation.)

Peter’s gaze stays fixed on the Grandmaster throughout this exchange, expression so neutral it’s as if he isn’t really paying attention.

“Mr. Grandmaster, uh, even if you want me to—well, you know. It would still be better if my hands were free. It would make, uh, contorting easier.” His eyes flick towards Tony for the briefest moment, but it’s enough to catch a hint of resolve. The kid is planning something.

Here Tony is, cowed into submission, quietly watching, while Peter is plotting an attack, or an escape, or—something. Something monumentally stupid. Still shaking from the dose of electricity, yet thinking about risking it again. That’s how little he wants to be here, to be doing this.

God, fuck him for _liking_ this, just minutes ago. For delighting in the smooth expanses of skin, the taught muscles, the way Peter moaned. (For still feeling a hint of arousal thinking about it.) Shame burns along the back of his neck.

He’s so lost in his guilt, he almost misses the Grandmaster telling Peter that no, he’s just going to have to make do with his hands still tied down. A vague hint of threat plays beneath the surface of the response, as if he, too, had caught that the request wasn’t really about better masturbation positioning.  

Peter deflates a little, squared shoulders slumping as he accepts his fate with a nod. “Okay, then,” he says with forced cheeriness. “That’s fine. I can—I can figure it out.”

His face scrunches in the way it does when he’s thinking. Tentatively, he leans forward, bending towards his deflated cock. Even with his enhanced flexibility, it seems awkward, particularly with his arms still pinned out to the side. With a huff—loud enough that Tony can hear it even from a few feet away—he shifts positions, lifting his legs and sliding forward in the chair until he is bent at the waist, perfect ass fully exposed.

No, not perfect, Tony chastises himself. Just—ass. Exposed. Involuntarily. Terribly. Not at all enticingly taught. Seeing Peter like this, folded in half, eyes fluttering closed, soft lips wrapping around his own dick—it is in no way tempting, not one of the hottest things he’s ever seen. He tugs his robe closed before his twitching erection can betray the lie.

The Grandmaster hums approvingly. “Well now, that’s not something I see every day. Very impressive. Wouldn’t you agree Mr.—Stark, is it?”

Oh, so _now_ he’s supposed to talk? He clenches his jaw and pulls the robe tighter, trying find something to say that will satisfy the sadistic bastard without embarrassing Peter. Without betraying too much of the truth. It’s weird spending this much time thinking before he speaks. He’s not used to it.

“I asked you a question.”

Fuck. Okay. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, very impressive. Most guys would kill to be able to do that.” That was good. Normal Tony Stark flippant. He even managed not to sound aroused.

Peter doesn’t react to this conversation, just stays focused on his task, eyes closed, cheeks hollowing with the effort. He’s quiet, none of the moans or whines from before. Even from feet away, behind an invisible barrier, Tony can feel the determination that radiates off him; he has a job and he’s going to get it done. He starts to bob his head, sliding up and down in a jerking motion that can’t possibly be comfortable. After a minute he pauses and shifts, an obscene smacking sound filling the air as he pulls off his cock. It’s semi-hard. He grunts, sounding frustrated, and draws his legs up even higher, spreading them. The movement stretches him open.

The sight is unbearable. The image of what he wants to do to that ass overwhelms him; he gasps. It’s a quiet sound, but suddenly Peter’s eyes are open and on him, questioning. Super-hearing, right. Damn. He had been trying so hard. He attempts to put his face into a neutral expression as his mentee’s gaze continues to bore into him, analyzing. Suddenly, without breaking eye contact, Peter pulls off and then slams down quickly, taking his entire cock with an exaggerated moan. Tony has to press his eyes closed and clench his fists to resist making a similar sound. His cock jumps to attention; he doesn’t need to look down to know it must be obvious through his robe.

Fuck. Part of him had hoped that when they got out of this, he’d be able to wave everything aside as an act; just a worried friend doing his best to keep his favorite teenaged protégé safe through a terrible experience. He sucked his cock and lavished him with praise because he wanted him to feel okay, that’s all.  But there is no explaining away this reaction.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter’s voice is a whisper.

Slowly, he opens his eyes, dreading a look of horror, of disgust, maybe of anger. Of betrayal: getting hard watching his friend humiliated. Instead, he’s met with quizzical—hope? _Hope?_ That can’t be right.

“Kid?” It’s half an apology, half a question. Peter’s cock, now most of the way hard, twitches in response to his voice, and Tony is only partially successful at biting back another moan.

Peter inhales deeply, as if bracing himself. “I think—I think it would help me if you’d be a little more vocal. Uh, with the Grandmaster’s permission, of course,” he adds hastily, glancing towards the other man with an imploring look. Which is good, because Tony’s mouth has gone too dry to say anything.

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” the Grandmaster agrees. “At least _you_ know how to show some respect.”

“Sir?” Peter’s eyes move back to meet his, brow furrowed, as if worried he’ll decline. “I mean, if you don’t mind. I know it’s a weird request, I’m sorry, it’s just this is uncomfortable, and hearing you, it—it helps.” He shrugs, blushing.

Tony’s head swims with the implications. 

“God, Pete,” he manages to gasp out. He swallows deeply and tries to pull himself together. This doesn’t mean anything. Just a teenager needing stimulation, something to focus on in the nightmare. He can’t read too much into it. But the least he can do is accommodate, right? “Of course. Whatever you need.” Then, because Peter still looks unsure, he adds, “Well, get back to it. You were doing great.”

Peter groans at that and then does as instructed, swallowing himself. His eyes stay trained on Tony as he begins to move, slowly bobbing his head, smoother this time. Tony—trying not to think about what it will mean for the rest of their relationship—stops hiding the reaction the sight of his mentee spread open and sucking himself elicits. He lets his jaw go slack. His breath hitches when Peter moans around his cock.

“Fuck, kid,” he gasps. It’s barely above a whisper, but he’s sure Peter can hear, because he whimpers in response. “You’re quite the sight.” Peter’s hips buck. Encouraged, he adds, “You’re so fucking hot. You have no idea.”

At that, Peter’s eyes go glossy and he moves his hips faster. Okay, then. The kid likes praise. He can work with that. His own cock strains even harder as he imagines fucking into that ass, groaning a litany of compliments with every thrust. _You’re so tight, you feel so good, you take it so well_ —

“God, you’re amazing,” he says out loud, allowing his voice to drip with lust.

Peter keens, a sound so needy Tony’s knees buckle. He raises an arm to steady himself against the barrier. His robe falls open, exposing his erection. He goes to close it, but—

“Leave it, sir.” Beneath heavy lashes, Peter’s eyes are trained on his groin. He runs his tongue over his lips. “Please.”

Totally unable to process the meaning of that request, Tony chuckles. “You’re unbelievable,” he gasps, but does as asked. In fact, he lifts his arm higher, letting the robe open further, warm air hitting his exposed chest and thighs. “Whatever you want, I’m all yours. Always.”

He wonders if that’s too much, but Peter’s eager gasp, the way he returns to sucking with renewed vigor, suggests not. The kid’s eyes roam across his body as he bobs and thrusts and sighs around himself, a squirming mess of desire.

“Fuck,” Tony says. And then again, letting a stream of nonsense tumble from his lips. “Peter—Jesus—Look at you—I want—god—” He’s not even sure what exactly he’s murmuring but it seems to be working. Peter moves faster and harder, moaning, guttural, eyes screwing shut, focused. He shines with perspiration, hair matted. The muscles along his arms are tense, his fingers and toes curl. Close, he looks so close—

With an exasperated gasp he throws his head back. “Fuck,” he practically screams, frustration vibrating from every inch of him, cocking throbbing in the open air. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s not you, you’re—god, you’re—thank you.” He stumbles over the rush of words. “This is just so much. I need, god, I need—fuck, I wish you could touch me.”

“Later.” The Grandmaster’s voice is full of amusement. “You’ll get your wish, but I want to see how this ends, first.”

Peter groans, returns to sucking himself for a few moments before stopping again. He catches Tony’s eye, panting and desperate.

“You’re doing so well,” Tony prompts. “You’re—”

Peter shakes his head. “Please, sir, can you tell me what you want to do to me?” The request comes out a whine; his face flushes, probably not entirely out of lust. “I don’t care if it’s a lie, I just— _please_.”

Tony’s head goes light; it takes every ounce of concentration he has not to collapse as a wave of arousal spins through his body. “Pete, I want to do unspeakable things to you.”

Peter’s cock jumps. “Try? To speak them?”

Tony actually laughs at that. “God, kid.” His mind dashes around for something concrete. ( _Everything, I want to do everything._ ) It settles on the image of Peter working in the lab, bent over a table, hair flopping forward, nibbling at the edge of a pen as he concentrates. A picture of innocence that Tony has wanted to rip apart for longer than he’d care to admit, even to himself. “I want to bend you over a desk and fuck you until you can’t think straight.”

Peter gasps and nods, closing his mouth around his dick again. And so Tony keeps going, describing how he wants to approach Peter from behind while he’s working, wrap his arms around him, grind his hard dick against his ass until the kid is begging for it—Peter bucks and moans as Tony lays bare the depth of his desire. How he wants press him into the desk, hand hard on his back. How he wants to pound into him until Peter can’t do anything but babble his name and cry for more.

Peter’s going faster now, faster than even before, entire body shaking with tension. Close, this time definitely close, so close the only sound he makes is small squeaks.

“That’s it, kid,” Tony gasps. “Fuck, I want to come inside of you.”

Peter’s goes perfectly still as his orgasm hits him, body convulsing. And then, suddenly, he collapses apart, as if all of the muscles holding him up have gone soft. He melts into the chair, final spirts of come streaking his stomach. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he tries to catch gasping breaths.

Just as suddenly, the barrier is gone. Tony stumbles forward, disoriented. He catches himself before he falls completely and then, with a rush of relief, covers the distance between them in a moment. He throws himself to his knees and wraps his arms around Peter, who burrows into the crook of his neck, trembling. He smells like flowers and sweat, and faintly singed. Warm tears hit Tony’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, running his hand through matted hair. “I’m sorry, kid. I’m so sorry.” He’s not even sure exactly what he’s apologizing for—getting them into this situation? Provoking the Grandmaster? The truth of his desire?

Or maybe, he thinks as he pulls Peter closer, the apology is for what’s about to come next.

 _You’ll get your fun_.

“God, Pete. I’m just so sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Next chapter, fucking, I promise! And, as always, feedback makes me very happy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now, the grand finale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beautiful, patient readers, thank you so much for sticking with me even though this chapter took far longer than I said it would. This had been a hell of a month. But! It is here. It has fucking, as promised, and also feelings, because even though I set out to write PWP, it turns out I just can’t not have a lot of feelings going on with these two. Enjoy!

They stay like that, entwined, Peter shaking to his core, Tony whispering repentance into his hair. The moment unfurls into another, and another still, luxuriously uninterrupted, their captor apparently content to let them rest. Tony knows better than to hope the nightmare is over; he simply treasures each second he’s allowed to be a comfort rather than a weapon.

As the moment stretches on Peter begins to relax. The trembling stops and he melts into Tony’s embrace, resting heavy against his chest.

“Stop apologizing,” he murmurs. “It’s not your fault, Mr. Stark.”

If only absolution were that easy: blame it on circumstance and wipe the slate clean. But that’s not how this works. Not when he has spilled his desires so recklessly and nakedly. Not when he will never be able to forget how Peter looked while spread open, pleasuring himself to his fantasies. (Not when the feel of warm breath against his neck is currently sending shivers through his body.)

He presses a kiss to the top of Peter’s head, treasuring the scent of salt and shampoo. He runs his hand down his spine; it’s meant to be tender, but Peter whines, arching away from the touch.

 “St—stop,” he gasps.

Tony snaps his hands away and leans back with a wave of nauseous guilt. He’d forgotten reality, taken Peter’s momentary need for comfort as an invitation for further intimacy. Fuck. What was he thinking? 

“Fuck kid, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No, Mr. Stark, I didn’t mean—it was just kind of sensory overload. Please don’t look at me like that!” Amazingly, Peter sounds frustrated rather than hurt or offended. He raises his chin with self-assured defiance, reminding Tony of that day, years ago, when they stood on a rooftop arguing about responsibility. “Stop acting like I don’t like you touching me when I’ve just made it _embarrassingly_ clear that I do.”

Tony’s brain skids to a halt as he tries to process the words he just heard.

_Peter likes his touch._

Maybe he just means right now, in this moment, for comfort in these circumstances. Yes. Probably he means that, appropriate and cabined; not a confession of ongoing desire that opens a world of impossible possibilities, of temptation that he would absolutely fail to resist, that he would hate himself for indulging, that he shouldn’t even be thinking about possibly hoping for—

His desperate attempt to keep his universe on its axis is shattered by Peter’s expression: eyebrows knit together in a silent question, defiance softened into nervous anticipation. As if what Tony says next is the most important thing in the world.

His mouth is dry. Why is his mouth dry?

He knows he should say something. Those pleading eyes deserve an answer, but his mind can’t grasp a response. Every possibility spins out toward a new world of pain. Probably he should brush it off, joke it away, but he can already imagine Peter’s hurt expression and he can’t, he just can’t. But to admit the truth—that everything he just said was a real desire, a fantasy that has been lingering for longer than he’s admitted even to himself, to say _that_ —

A small part of him is relieved when the Grandmaster cuts in: “Yes, we all enjoy him touching you. So how about the grand finale?”

He doesn’t need to ask what it means, they’re all perfectly clear on that point. Yes, right. Grand finale. Well then. The dryness has spread from his mouth to his throat. He swallows heavily, but it doesn’t really help.

Peter is still radiating openly terrified anticipation. His eyes beg for a response, but Tony still can’t bring himself to cross that final line. Instead, he reaches out to stroke his face, trying to buy time. (And, if he’s being honest, also because it’s been too many seconds since they stopped touching; his fingers ache to feel soft warm skin under them again.) Peter shivers at the contact, eyes fluttering closed as Tony drags a thumb across his cheek, but he doesn’t complain this time.

“Well, kid, I really hope you mean that. Because I think I’m about to do a lot of touching.” There. That’s ambiguous enough. The Grandmaster lets out a small cheer that goes entirely ignored.

“I mean it, Mr. Stark.” Peter nuzzles into Tony’s hand. He shyly opens his eyes halfway, peering out from behind thick lashes. “I’m just worried about you.”

Tony’s heart breaks. Again. How is that even possible? How does this kid keep saying things that make him want to rip the entire universe apart rather than see him hurt?  He lets out a shaky sigh. Who is he kidding here? He doesn’t have a choice: the truth will make this moment easier, and so the truth is what Peter gets. The consequences can wait.

“Don’t.” He raises on his knees until they are eye to eye. What he’s about to say could ruin things forever. He should at least own it. “Pete, don’t you _dare_ worry about me. There’s nothing happening here that I wouldn’t want completely in a more pleasant setting.”

Peter’s eyes go wide. “I—Sir—uh—what—” he gasps, a touch of awe under the stammering. “Do you—do you mean that?”

Instead of repeating himself, Tony kisses him, clutching his robe and drawing him close, pouring his want into every movement of his lips. Peter opens his mouth with an eager moan. He tastes like his own come, and what little resolution Tony has left snaps. He snakes one arm down and around Peter’s waist, dragging him forward in his chair until their chests are flush; he fists his free hand into his hair, delighting in the squeak that elicits.

He feels his flagging erection stiffing again, feels Peter’s dick harden against his stomach. He shifts slightly so their cocks touch, and is rewarded with another gasp.  Peter bucks his hips; the friction shoots through every nerve in Tony’s body. He rocks forward in response, suddenly desperate for every point of contact. He luxuriates in the sounds Peter makes as they rub together, the way his back arches and his hips rise to meet his movement, the feel of sweat and soft skin, the taste of his mouth—

He breaks away from the sloppy, eager kiss to move to Peter’s ear. “Yeah, kid,” he murmurs. “I mean it.”

“Oh my god.” Tony can hear the smile in Peter’s voice. “That’s—I—I mean I thought maybe—earlier I mean, not before that—but—just—” He flings his legs around Tony, resting his heels against the small of his back, tugging him closer with surprising strength. “That is _awesome_ , Mr. Stark. Just—I just—”

Tony laughs against Peter’s neck, heart swelling, then sucks on his ear until his joyful rambling trails off into throaty moans. It doesn’t take long for Peter’s thrusts to get erratic. His moans take on a desperate, needy quality as he pulls Tony even tighter, one of his legs sliding up around his shoulder ( _god_ , that flexibility is a gift). Their cocks press together so hard it borders on painful, but Peter doesn’t seem to care, and Tony is grateful for anything that keeps him away from the edge: the kid may have the refractory period of super-powered teen, but he doesn’t, and in the back of his mind lingers the knowledge that their captor has very specific expectations for how this is going to end.

He pushes the thought to the side as he moves from Peter’s ear to his neck, concentrating on sucking dark marks into his skin. Peter rocks beneath him, heels digging into his back so hard it will leave bruises. Fuck. He’d just meant to kiss him. How did they end up here—Peter’s head thrown back, body tense and slick with sweat, gasping as his movements speed up?

“Fuck, Peter,” he growls against his neck. The feel of skin against skin is intoxicating. “How could I _not_ want you?”

Peter lets out a cry, entire body going stiff as streams of warm come paint their stomachs. Tony covers his neck with light kisses, whispering encouragements until his muscles soften and his legs fall away as he slides, panting, into afterglow bliss.

Once Peter seems content Tony pulls back, drinking in the sight of him, limbs skewed, eyes closed, once again wearing a blissed-out smile that is Tony’s new favorite thing. His body is messy with semen and sweat. Without thinking, Tony pulls the edge of his robe around his hand and reaches forward to wipe him clean, but he moans and twists away from the touch, gasping, “Too—too much.” Overstimulation, right.

With a sudden, guilty jolt Tony realizes they’ve made a mistake— _he’s_ made a mistake—by giving in to the moment. He’s still painfully hard, but if they were alone, if it were up to him, he’d let his arousal die down, more than content simply knowing he’s the reason Peter looks so satisfied. But it’s not up to him, and when he glances over at their captor, he sees exactly what he expects: an impatient frown, and a hand gesture that says, _Well, get on with it_.

Tony raises to his feet and slowly stride towards the Grandmaster, trying to figure out how to buy Peter time to recover. It only takes a few steps before their enemy is waving the controller threateningly, as if Tony could possibly have forgotten the sound of Peter’s screams so soon. (As if he could ever forget.) He raises his hands defensively.

“Not trying to cause trouble, boss. Just thinking we could use some lube.”

The Grandmaster strokes his chin in mock thoughtfulness. “Yes, I can see how that would be helpful.” Then suddenly he’s smirking that smirk that is already too familiar. The one that makes Tony’s insides twist, that says, _This is your fault, Tony Stark_. “Sadly, I don’t seem to have any on hand right now. Oh well.”

He shrugs and then, with a dismissive wave, shoos Tony back in Peter’s direction. Reluctantly, he obeys. What else is he supposed to do?

Peter tracks his movements with anxious intensity. He looks so very vulnerable, gaze heavy with exhaustion, robe shoved open, body slick with sweat and come, wrists red from the restraints still binding them. Tony strokes a few stray curls out of his face, noting with concern that he inhales sharply at the touch.

“Well, Pete,” he says, kneeling so they are once again face-to-face. He grabs both of Peter’s hands and squeezes. “I guess you know what comes next. For the record, this is not how I would have wanted it.”

Peter flashes a small grin, squeezing back. “But you _would_. Want it.”

Tony can’t help but chuckle, the knot in his stomaching loosening a little at the sight of the smile. “Yeah, kid. I would want it.”

“Well, okay then.”

As if the fact of Tony’s longing makes this better. Well, maybe it does, for Peter. It seems to. He’ll figure it out, one day, of course. Once they’re off this hellhole of a planet, he’ll realize these lines they’ve crossed, these truths that should have remained unspoken, they can’t be taken back.

But that’s a problem for the future. For now, he has a hypersensitive, overwhelmed teenager to fuck. Without lube. That’s enough of a problem by itself.

“So, I’m going to assume you haven’t done this before?” he asks, gently moving his hands to Peter’s hips. Peter ducks his head in a shy nod.

“Oh, a virgin. Delightful!” the Grandmaster practically cackles.

“Ignore him,” Tony whispers, as much for his own benefit as for Peter’s. _Virgin_. Right. He’d asked the question, but he didn’t need to hear the fact of the answer stated so blatantly, framed like a licentiousness treat rather than another reason this whole situation is completely fucked. He takes a deep breath, trying to stop his hands from shaking. “Can you scoot forward for me?”

Peter, immediately picking up what he’s getting at, wriggles until his ass is once again near the edge of the seat. His cock lays flaccid; Tony wonders if his apparently quite resilient libido can make it for another round. He hopes so—the last thing he wants is to go through with this while Peter is completely spent. But he also knows better than to test it directly when he’s still so sensitive.

Instead, he runs his hands down the side and back of Peter’s thighs, nudging his legs up and open. Peter quickly gets the hint here, too, lifting and spreading, exposing himself without hesitation. That simple show of trust hits Tony like a brick to the heart; he feels his throat constrict and the sting of tears in his eyes. Jesus, he needs to keep it together.

In an attempt at solidarity, he shrugs his robe off. At least they can both be exposed, right? As the robe drops to the floor Peter’s eyes widen and he makes another of those little sounds that goes straight to Tony’s dick. The sudden burst of arousal leaves him dizzy. How can he be so worried and so turned on at the same time? He grips the edge of the chair, pressing his eyes closed as he steadies himself. He can do this.

He brings a finger to his mouth to wet it, but Peter interrupts, catching his eye and hesitantly asking, “Mr. Stark, can—can I?”

It takes him a moment to register the request, but the way Peter’s tongue flicks across his lips gets the point across.

Fuck.

Tentatively, Tony extends his finger. Their gaze stays connected as Peter opens his mouth and pulls Tony in, closing around him with a contented hum. The silky warmth sends a shock down his arm and through his core; the sight of Peter’s mouth tight around his finger freezes his brain, leaving him with nothing but want. Blood rushes past his ears as Peter begins to suck. His dick, already hard, throbs painfully, leaking.

“Fuck,” he says, out loud this time. He adds another finger, which Peter takes eagerly, eyes still fixed on his face as if searching for approval. “Kid, that’s amazing.”

Peter moans at that, throaty and almost pained. Tony glances down to see that he’s half hard again—apparently that endurance of his really is endless. Incredible. (The things he could do with that stamina.) (The things Peter would apparently enjoy.) (And _wow_ he should not be going down that path…)

Reluctantly, he pulls his fingers out, chuckling as Peter stretches his neck to chase after them, whining. Peter’s lips, red and wet, are too tempting not to kiss, so he does, softly and quickly, before pulling back to meet his eyes again. He’s rewarded with a bright, adoring smile.

“I’m sorry if this hurts,” he warns. “I’m doing my best with what we have.” He brings his slicked fingers down, probing Peter’s entrance with his index finger, never loosing eye contact. He’s tight, too tight, clenching closed at the slightest touch. “Pete, I’m going to need you to relax. Can you do that for me?”

Peter swallows nervously and nods, but he suddenly looks anything but relaxed, smile gone. “Sorry, sir.”

One day they’re going to have to talk about the amount of apologizing Peter is doing, because frankly, it’s getting ridiculous. But if he’s learned anything in the last hour it’s that lecturing the kid won’t help. Praise, on the other hand…

“Don’t apologize, you’re doing great,” he encourages, using his free hand to pet along the back of Peter’s head and neck as he presses his finger forward again. This time, he’s able to drive in up to his knuckle. Peter lets out a small hiss, squeezing his eyes shut. “That’s it. Jesus, you have no idea how hot this is.”

Tony begins to move his finger, just a little, continuing to use his other hand to stroke Peter’s hair, keeping up the litany of praise. It feels good to let go again, to stop second guessing and just say what he’s thinking: _You’re incredible, god you’re perfect, you feel so good, you’re even better than I imagined._ The words seem to do the trick: Peter’s cock jerks and hardens, his muscles begin to relax, letting Tony push in further. He groans as Tony begins to slide in and out more quickly, a harsh, strangled sound somewhere between pleasure and agony.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Tony whispers, adding a second finger. Peter whimpers at the added pressure, toes curling. He’s tight and hot—too hot, Tony notes, probably a side-effect of his powers. He squirms and gasps as Tony works at opening him. “You’re doing so well, Pete,” he encourages. “I’m proud of you.”

Peter makes a stuttering noise that might have been an attempt at _thank you_ , but Tony shushes him, softly reminding him to relax: “I’ve got you.” He focuses on Peter’s face as he continues to slide and scissor, searching for the moments where pleasure overcomes pain, trying to memorize the movements that earn delighted gasps. He’s a fast learner; the more he works, the less Peter flinches. But he can feel the Grandmaster’s restless gaze burning into him. He’s not going to be allowed to keep this going for much longer.

Better speed things up, then. He curls his fingers, shifts, curls, and then—yep—finds the spot he’s searching for. He presses down. Peter yelps and arches, eyes flying open.

“Holy shit,” Peter manages to gasp. His head falls back as Tony repeats the movement. “What—fuck—” His entire body is flushed, cock fully erect and dripping.

“Too much?” Tony asks, returning to scissoring, moving his other hand from Peter’s hair to his cheek. He can practically hear the seconds ticking away, but he hopes that little show will buy them a few more moments.

“I—I don’t—” Peter gives a confused little shrug and nuzzles against his hand, shuddering with every movement of Tony’s fingers. “It’s all a lot,” he admits.

“ _Enough_. Get going.” The Grandmaster’s tone brokers no argument.

Time’s up.

Their eyes meet. Tony knows he must be radiating dread, but he’s greeted by that familiar determined expression, the confident nod he loves. Even with sweat-drenched hair, bright red cheeks, trembling lips, Peter looks ready to take on the world. He turns and plants a kiss against Tony’s palm.

Tony slowly removes his fingers. Peter’s entire body seems to soften at the release, and a new wave of guilt sweeps through Tony as he contemplates what he’s about to do. He brings his hand to his own cock, which is rock hard, stroking it a few times to spread the precome evenly. He wipes his glistening fingers along Peter’s entrance and then positions himself against it, hand moving to grip his hip.

“Okay.” He wants to sound confident, but his voice comes out quavering. “You ready?”

Peter lifts his legs, hooking his heels behind his neck and pulling him into a warm kiss. 

“I’m ready, Mr. Stark,” he whispers against his lips after a few moments. “I want this.”

It has to be a lie, at least the being ready part. His legs are shaking, his entire body radiates heat; there’s no way he isn’t exhausted, oversensitive. But he’s also Peter: brave, protective, stubborn. Perfect. And in the end, it doesn’t matter. This has to happen, and now.

Tony kisses him again as he pushes forward, trying to convey every bit of affection, every ounce of praise, every apology. To his relief, Peter, kissing back, manages to relax enough to let him in. He’s so tight, so hot, for a moment Tony loses sight of anything but craving, a thousand fantasies crashing into reality as he thrusts into the person he’s wanted for so long, who he fought the universe to get back.

“Peter,” he gasps, breaking the kiss. His entire body is on fire, longing to be close, closer, consumed completely. How had he resisted this? How can he ever let go again? He buries his face in Peter’s neck. “God, you have no idea.”

“Of wh—” Peter cuts off with an anguished groan as Tony presses deeper, greedy. The spit and precome are clearly not doing the trick; even in the midst of his arousal, Tony can feel the pain of friction. He snaps out of his haze, drawing back far enough to see Peter’s face, and is horrified to find tears sparkling in his eyes.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m so—”

“ _Fuck. Him_.” The Grandmaster’s voice is cold, low and quiet, but filling the whole room with threat. “And don’t you dare come before the virgin does,” he adds, clearly delighted to throw in one more twist. Asshole.

“It’s okay, sir,” Peter urges, though the rasp in his voice betrays the lie. “I’m fine.”

Tony wipes a stray tear from the corner of Peter’s eye, twisting his lips into a disapproving frown. “Don’t seem fine.”

“Yeah, well.” Peter gives a little shrug. “At least it’s you. If I had to pick someone to painfully lose my virginity to in front of a weird alien, it would’ve been you.” He punctuates the joke with a strained smile. “Come on,” he adds quietly, squeezing his legs encouragingly. “Before he gets antsy.”

There’s no arguing with that. As slowly has he can, Tony draws back and then pushes forward again. The movement sends sparks through every inch of his body, but the pleasure is tempered by seeing Peter fail to hide a wince. Tony adjusts his angle slightly, moving both hands to grasp Peter’s legs, and tries again. This time he hits the right spot, and Peter lets out a throaty cry. He repeats the motion, gets the same sound. And again. That’s better. Again.

The Grandmaster claps in delight. “Faster!” he instructs.

Tony hates to admit how much he enjoys following that instructions, each new stroke a bolt of pleasure. Peter’s eyes still gleam with tears, but he makes indecent, delicious noises as Tony continues to hit him at exactly the right angle. His cock, pressed between them, twitches and leaks, smearing their stomachs. He pulls Tony closer with his legs, until their foreheads touch.

“Talk to me,” he begs between pants.

“What do you want to hear?” Tony’s voice so low and heavy with lust he barely recognizes it. “That you’re the most incredible person I know?” He thrusts faster, heart racing, every nerve blazing with need, all the shameful lust that has been building since he first saw Peter in that robe hitting him at once. “Because you are.”

Peter’s answering moan is all he needs to keep going, babbling his yearning.  

“This is—fuck.” His grip on Peter’s thighs tightens as he picks up his pace, the rough pain of the unlubricated friction the only thing preventing him from losing control that moment. “I don’t know how I’ll be ever be able to think about anything else.”

“Harder!” comes a command.

Tony doesn’t have to be told twice, pounding into Peter with abandon. The slap of skin against skin mixes with Peter’s cries, with low grunts and moans he recognizes as his own. His fingers dig into Peter’s skin; Peter’s heels do the same against his back. 

“Fuck, kid, yes,” he hears himself muttering. “You’re perfect, you’re so perfect.”

Somewhere in the background there's a click, and suddenly Peter’s hands are clutching his hair, pulling him into a kiss. Free, finally. Probably he should shift position, find something better, but he can’t think straight enough to do anything more than wrap his arms behind Peter’s back and continue to rock into him.

He keeps the rhythm, hard and fast, each thrust hitting the place that makes Peter tremble and whine in his embrace. Tony can’t stop kissing him, any amount of space between them sacrilege. The sounds Peter is making are getting higher and more urgent, agonized and ecstatic at the same time. His hands twist in Tony’s hair so hard it hurts.

“Mr. Stark,” he implores, desperate.

“Come on, kid,” Tony says, barely able to form the words, his own longing for release building urgently. “Come for me.”

He slams into him and Peter tumbles over the edge with a sob, warm come splattering across Tony’s stomach, ass squeezing around his cock.

The sudden tightness burst through him; climax hits with shocking intensity. His lips find Peter’s as he rides out the waves of pleasure with a few final, rough thrusts, his entire universe whittled away to the feel of Peter around him and the sound of his own hitching breath.

As the ecstasy of orgasm begins to fade, the rest of the room comes back into focus. Someone—the Grandmaster, obviously the Grandmaster, his mind blearily fills in—is clapping. Peter is kissing him with abandon, still wrapping him close with every limb. Tenderly, Tony pulls out, and then drops backwards, hauling Peter to the ground with him until they lay intertwined, panting.  

Peter rests his head against Tony’s chest. He wonders how loud his pattering heartbeat is to those enhanced senses. As the thought drifts lazily through his mind, he’s surprised to feel fingers land lightly on his cheek; it’s Peter’s turn to tilt his face until they are looking at each other again. Peter's eyes are red and still rimmed with tears, but crinkled around the edges: he’s grinning.

Tony hugs him close, at a loss for how to describe the way that smile makes him feel. 

“Kid—”

Before he can find the words to continue, he feels a pinch in his neck and goes dark again.

*** 

When he comes to, he’s sinking into a soft mattress, covered in a warm blanket. He’s been showered again, sticky sweat washed away. The realization sends a shiver down his spine, but at least this time he’s been dressed in silky pajamas rather than a revealing robe. Grey, he notices, a little duly, looking down at himself. Silky grey pajamas.

He sits, slowly, body sore and bruised, an immediate confirmation that no, the vivid scenes painted across his mind had not been a dream or hallucination. His heart jumps at the realization that he doesn’t know where Peter is, but before frenzy sets in he swings around and, to his deep relief, sees a small figure curled under a pile of blankets on another bed across the surprisingly spacious room. Okay. Peter is okay.

Tony takes a moment to orient himself as his heart rate comes back down. They’re in what looks more or less like a five-star hotel room: two large beds, a dresser, a few chairs off to the side, all in gleaming chrome and stark whites. No windows, though. Not exactly homey or welcoming, but comfortable. This is truly the oddest kidnapping of his life. He slips out of bed to explore before he can start thinking too hard about the other reason this has been such a bizarre experience.

The drawers are filled with more pajamas. There’s a closet, but when he opens it the only thing inside are two fluffy white robes; he slams it shut. The room has two doors. One leads to an equally luxurious bathroom, complete with what appears to be some sort of hot tub. His muscles ache to give it a whirl, but he has more pressing concerns. He tries the other door. No surprise, it’s locked. So, still prisoners. Well, that’s fine. He’ll figure something out. He always does.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter has come to. He’s sitting up, blankets pushed to the side, arms curled around his legs, looking fragile in oversized grey pajamas of his own. He gazes at Tony with bleary, confused eyes.

“Yeah kid, I’m here.” Tony crosses the room in a moment, a little relived that an invisible barrier doesn’t pop up to repel him. He wouldn’t put it past the Grandmaster to keep toying with them, even now, but there don’t seem to be any tricks.

He hovers at the side of the bed awkwardly before tentatively sitting, suddenly hyperaware of every movement. What is he supposed to do, exactly? He longs to reach out, to stroke Peter’s cheek, hold him against his chest, but maybe he’s realized, now that they are out of the Grandmaster’s direct control, exactly how fucked up what happened was. How wrong and cruel. Maybe he’s traumatized, maybe he hates Tony, maybe—

“Sir? Mr. Stark? Are you alright?” Suddenly Peter is by his side, hands running through his hair and down his arms. He interlaces their fingers and squeezes. Tony, grounded by the strength of his grip, clutches back, catching breath he hadn’t realized he’d lost, panic dispersing as Peter whispers, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

How is he being the one comforted? That is definitely not right.

“I’m good,” he says roughly. “I’m good.” But he doesn’t let go of Peter’s hands.

They sit like that, silent, Tony staring at their entangled fingers, tracing a mindless pattern against Peter’s palm until he’s finally calm. Cautiously, he looks up, and is met with a look of such pure affection it takes his breath away again.

“I don’t hate you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Peter says urgently. (So smart. He’s always so smart.) “For any of it. I don’t—honestly, I the opposite of hate you.” He ducks with a small blush. “Do you hate me?” he adds quietly.

Man, does this fucking kid know how to shatter his heart with a few words, or what? Tony throws his arms around him, pulling him into a firm hug, planting a kiss in his freshly washed hair.

“God, Peter, no. In fact, I ‘the opposite of hate you,’ too.” Peter giggles against his chest, a sweet, tinkling sound that makes something in Tony go to mush. “In all seriousness,” he adds, murmuring into the top of Peter’s head, still not sure if he’d be brave enough to say this to his face now, outside of that terrible room. “I meant every word in there. I probably shouldn’t, but I did.”

Peter breaks away from the embrace to fix Tony with a piercing look. 

“What do I have no idea of?” he asks. When Tony blinks back at him silently, genuinely confused, he adds, “You said, ‘God, you have no idea.’ In there, I mean. What do I have no idea?”

The moment comes back to Tony in a startling flash: the heat of desire, the feel of Peter around him. He feels his cock twitch, but ignores it, trying to remember the emotion that had prompted his words. All that time spent searching, missing, longing, crashing down into a single moment. He cups Peter’s chin in his hand and stares firmly into his eyes, fear suddenly gone.

“How much you mean to me,” he explains. “That’s what you have no idea of. If you can wonder for one second, for one _millisecond_ , if I feel anything about you but complete and utter adoration, then, kid, you really have no fucking idea.”

“I—um—wha—wow,” Peter breaths. “Okay. I mean. Yeah. Got it.”

And then he kisses Tony. Their first real kiss, no one watching, no one demanding: just them. Warm, and light, full of devotion. Absolutely perfect.

 (And if it can’t last? If it has to fracture and crumble?) (Well, who says? Maybe it doesn't.)

“So,” Tony muses when they finally break apart. “How about you and I figure out how to get off this planet?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading this! This story is finally done, but I may well return to this verse at some point. We’ll see. It’s tempting, I've had so much fun with it. (Seriously, when I first started it I thought it would be one chapter, maybe a couple of thousand words. 13k later, and here we are.) Either way, I do plan to finish the other P/T story I’m working on, and maaay (definitely) have another idea or two floating around. I just adore these two.
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are appreciated and treasured. As I said, somehow, after many years in fandom, this is my first ever explicit fic, so I really want to know what you thought!


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